The Last Stand
by KricketWilliams
Summary: In his fifty plus years, David Rossi had seen it all, but he'd never seen anything like this. A character study written in time for Halloween to get us in the mood. I don't own a thing, just my crazy idea. A one-shot (I think!).
1. Chapter 1

AN: Here is a short story for everyone...Happy early Halloween!...

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**The Last Stand **_by Kricket Williams_

In no uncertain terms, David Rossi was jaded.

It wasn't a statement that needed arguing. It was simply the truth and as plain as the goatee on his face. He'd been around a long time; he'd earned his stripes and the respect of everyone around him, even those who didn't like him. As a profiler who'd been in the minds of some of the darkest criminals known to the FBI, he'd seen enough of this world to become baldly cynical—and deservedly so.

Still, nothing had prepared him for this.

Reaching for his Glock, he loaded another ammunition cartridge and whacked the chamber hard against his open palm. They were coming from everywhere, every nook and cranny of society, every single fucking day. He aimed his pistol and shot one dead center: straight between the cold, lifeless eyes staring back at him.

Zombies.

It sounded like a joke, a rude farce, a B-movie that never should've made it out of production. It was a nightmare that he should've woken from two months ago. But it wasn't anything like that. It was real, and it was terrifying. Everything in Dave's logical soul rebelled against the notion of a zombie apocalypse, only to find himself leading one of the armies fighting against them.

He was doing it alone, too. He didn't have his team, the members of the BAU he loved and cared about more than life. Evacuation had been necessary and imminent; it hadn't been safe to stay in Quantico. After much discussion, they'd planned their exits accordingly.

The first to leave was JJ. She, Will, and Henry had gone—under direct order from the rest of the team—to a colony in Alaska, one of the few places left that had been untouched by the undead. They couldn't go to Will's hometown of New Orleans. Louisiana seemed to be ground zero for the activity, a viral cesspool of unnatural phenomena. Other hotbeds were New York, followed by Los Angeles and Chicago. The team had figured those areas were targeted merely because of population.

More people equaled more dead. Easy calculation.

Morgan had left for his hometown of Chicago, loaded for bear with more ammunition and weapons than a man could carry. His soul objective was to save his mother and sisters, who were still in Chicago, and there was no stopping him from going. He'd been lucky enough to make contact with them via telephone early in the infestation, but when the lines went dead, he'd marched away, a brave soldier off to do battle.

Reid had been next to go. He was in a think tank in Las Vegas. Not the glitzy city he grew up in, but Las Vegas, New Mexico, where there were far fewer people and less chance of infestation. A bunker, far under the earth, housed some of the greatest scientific and analytic minds in the FBI, attempting to sort out what the hell had happened and how to stop it. The desert landscape also had been virtually untouched by the zombies. It made Rossi almost smile to think of it, that apparently the undead like to stay hydrated, too...

Although she'd been devastated by her family going, Garcia had resolutely stayed behind, trying to maintain contact via cell phones and tablets with everyone that had left. She hadn't been completely successful. The internet had crashed nearly every day, and there were multiple blackouts that made her job very difficult. Reid and JJ had checked in, but Morgan was MIA, and that was taking its toll on Garcia. She'd wanted him to stay, and he would have stayed for her, but she knew how much family meant to him. She couldn't hold him back from saving his family. After he'd left, she'd cried more often than she smiled, and she'd looked pale and wan. She'd insisted on staying, but Hotch and Dave had talked her into leaving, ensuring that she would find better contacts out of a red zone, contaminated area. Penelope had left for Wichita, Kansas, another spot that had been spared.

They'd nearly come to fisticuffs, but Dave had finally talked Hotch into taking his son and leaving. He'd known that as a leader, Aaron would've wanted to stay until everyone had left, and that included Dave. However, Hotch had a young son, too, and after Erin had died, Dave had nobody. The reason the team had given JJ for leaving was her child, and Hotch's situation had been even more intense: he was all Jack had left in this world.

Dave closed his eyes and thought back to the parting he'd had with his best friend.

_They stood in the hallway, mostly silent. Attempting. Trying. Saying—but not saying—__goodbye._

"_You'll leave soon?" Aaron asked, arching a brow._

"_Next caravan." Dave smiled. "A month after you."_

_That was how it had to be done, in stages. Too many people attracted unwanted attention._

_Aaron's expression was grim, stoic. It was how he appeared to many people, but Rossi knew him well. __Hotch __concealed his emotions well, but in this case, the expression fit the situation. He drew a slight breath, exhaled, and then began, "Dave..."_

_Shit. Rossi couldn't take this. Not now. Not ever._

"_Hey, I'm not dead yet!"" Dave said, attempting to chuckle. When Aaron cracked a smile of his own, he continued, "We'll see each other again."_

_Hotch reached his hand forward and clasped Dave's firmly. "We will."_

They'd clasped each other in a manly sort of embrace, one that showed little emotion, but meant more than meets the eye. It had been a hug of support, of caring, of a long friendship that had weathered much and would continue to battle whatever was thrown at it.

It also was the last human touch Dave had felt. His caravan had been attacked, and he was one of the few surviving souls left in the Quantico area.

"Sonofabitch," he muttered, opening his eyes to see the empty street and the body of the zombie he'd shot. Lying there, eyes closed, the zombie looked far less menacing than he had moments earlier.

_Damn, this was a young one_, he thought. _Probably__ only a teenager_.

The kid had fallen face first to the ground after Dave had shot him, so he couldn't tell exactly how old he was. It was his fashion that had him wondering the kid's age: designer jeans that were belted far lower than his boxer shorts and some death metal band on his oversized T-shirt that amazingly was still partially tucked in.

A pang went through Dave's chest at the waste of it all, but he blew it aside. He didn't have the luxury to be sentimental. He hadn't killed the kid—that was impossible.

The bastard was already dead.

"Okay, kiddo," he said, bending over the corpse. "Let's see what you got."

There was an urgent necessity to keep any supplies that could be used to treat survivors that he might come across on his journey. He was on his way to his home in Quantico, and then he was going north. Anywhere north.

Dave reached into the back pocket of the sturdy jeans and found a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, a stick of Wrigley's Doublemint, and a cell phone that had no charge. He kept the cell and the gum, but tossed the cigarettes—those were bad for his health, and there were enough things wanting him dead. He flipped the body, ignoring the kid's face, and dug into the pockets. There wasn't anything but lint in the front pockets.

Just before he was about to leave, he looked up at the face of the zombie. Damn it. He'd been right: he was only a boy. Barely pubescent, he didn't even have the start of a mustache.

Dave took a moment and closed the lifeless eyes staring up at him.

"Sleep well, son. Sleep well."

After standing, Dave swatted the dust off his fine Italian, tailored pants. He stretched and then checked his gun before tucking it into his FBI-issued hip holster.

He sighed heavily. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he groused as he began marching on toward what remained of his home.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews. I thought I was done, but my story fairy would not give up with this one. I have an incredible desire to see our beloved team with the happiest of endings-even if they suffer a little to get there. So, here is another chapter!...

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**Chapter 2**

It took Dave nearly an hour to reach the outskirts of town where his car was parked. Once the infestation had hit, a reasonably unreasonable panic had ensued. The government, in its usual wisdom, had announced evacuation, listing an alphabetized order, and expected citizens to follow. Naturally, it was every man for himself after that. People left everything littering the streets in an attempt to exit on one of the government-sponsored cargo trains leading west. Cars, bikes, taxis, buses—anything with wheels—were deserted, making driving impossible in the city and blocking the exits for many.

There hadn't been such a mass exodus like that in his lifetime. Everyone leaving, talking about the same thing, as if it were their savior. Westward ho, the mecca for people, a safe haven...

A week later, the BAU team found that California had been overrun with zombies, and they were beginning to leech toward the interior of the country, just like they had been doing on the east coast for the past few weeks.

Dave approached his large sedan, clicking the entry button on his key fob. Although there were no people left in Quantico to steal his car, he didn't know if zombies knew how to open car doors. They weren't the most resourceful creatures, but he didn't want one popping up from his back seat just in case!

After a precursory check of said back seat, he slid into the front seat of his car. He shook his head, a bit miffed that he'd become one of "those people," who checked the rear before he climbed in. Putting that aside, he clicked on his seat belt—safety first—and then flicked on his CD.

The warm tones of Tony Bennett filled the car, and for a while, he let himself relax. His car had been relatively new; the fresh smell of leather was foreign amongst the trash and rot surrounding him outside. He loved that car. It was a thirty-minute drive back to his home. He might as well enjoy it.

Home. He hadn't thought of that place in that way for a long time, even since before the zombies hit. For many years, he'd been content being alone, a bachelor in a swanky, deluxe bachelor pad the Rat Pack would've been proud of. He had good food, great Scotch, and enough women to keep his libido—and his ego—feeling good. A man's castle that fit him to a tee.

And then she'd come into his life...and left from his life...and the place hadn't been the same since.

To keep his mind off his melancholy thoughts, he started singing along with Tony. It was a mindless, romantic tune he'd sung a million times before. He liked Tony Bennett, and he wondered somewhat aimlessly if he'd survived the attack. Seemed a shame that a man like Tony Bennett could make it through six decades of music, only to be felled by a brain-eating idiot that couldn't speak.

Dave turned his CD up as a wash of anger rode over him again, threatening his thirty minutes of peace. That was the one thing that bothered him the most about zombies—the noise. It started as a low hum of discontent, only to rise to an inharmonious discord of moaning and wailing that didn't resemble human speech at all. It seemed criminal to him; they walked like a human, had a physical approximation to humans, but sounded like nothing even remotely human—or alive, for that matter.

The road leading to his home had plenty of cars littering the way, and he zigzagged his way through the obstacles. He glanced to the left and saw an unfamiliar car in a ditch. It reminded him of the car _she_ used to drive, one of those eco-friendly models that were all the rage with women. He hated that car. Sure, it got one hundred miles to the gallon, but it had absolutely no get up and go when it came to hills. He'd threatened more than once that he'd use his sedan to push her car up to his house when he'd followed her home after work.

Her response had been always the same: "_Patience—and saving the environment—are virtues, David."_

God, he missed her! He missed all of them—Reid, Morgan, Garcia, JJ, and Aaron. It made him wonder why he was still there in Quantico when they were all gone. As a foremost expert in his field and a pioneer in new tactics, he'd been requested to stay by the Feds, asking for him to monitor any activity that came to the FBI, and he'd done it with pride. He'd heard from the government twice since then, from cities farther away from the center of activities than he was.

They weren't keeping their necks on the line. They weren't battling the undead daily. They weren't away from their families.

He was.

No more. He was packing his bags and he was heading out, to find everyone he missed and loved. He would start with Garcia. She was closest in Kansas, and he could find out if she'd touched base with anyone. He'd try Morgan in Illinois and then Reid in New Mexico. He'd take his car—his one safe haven—and he'd find his friends, and maybe together, they'd figure this shit out.

They always did their best thinking as a group. He'd learned that lesson when he first started with the team, and he'd never forgotten it.

He turned to head up the hill to his house, feeling more hopeful than he'd felt in weeks. Everything seemed to get just a little bit better at that moment. He mentally began taking notes on what he wanted to bring—the essentials, food, water, cigars, coffee, guns, ammunition, blankets, toiletries, clothing, extra gas. He'd make it, but it wouldn't be an easy journey at all.

Dave pulled into his garage, shut the door, and then popped the trunk before exiting his car. He started packing flashlights and batteries, a camp stove and propane, and his extra gas can. Extra ammo came next, along with a long-range rifle with electric sights, along with several other odds and ends. Satisfied with his choices from his garage, he closed his trunk and started into his house.

When he opened the adjoining door, he noticed his lights were on in his kitchen. He must've left them on all day. That made him frown; she'd worked hard on reminding him to shut off the lights and be more prudent. He'd tried to remember, as a way to honor her memory.

He took out a couple of paper bags in his kitchen and began loading them with food. He was going to take everything that wasn't perishable. He found some cans of vegetables, some soups, and in the back of his cabinet was a can of tuna. He reached back, grabbing—

"_David..."_

Dave sat up so quickly, he clunked his head on the shelf. He looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to have imagined that voice. There was _no way_ she was here. He had to be imagining things. There was no way. She'd died. She'd died before the damned zombies even showed up.

She'd _died_.

Shaking off his ridiculous thoughts, he opened his pantry door and began to throw in crackers and crispbreads, pancake mix and cereal, and a variety of chips. He threw in a few Twinkies—those things would last longer than he did—and cookies for later, just in case he craved something sweet on the road.

Walking to his bedroom, he crossed the room and then stopped in the bathroom and threw in toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, lotion, and his razor. He didn't know if he was going to use the razor, although he didn't want to look like he made duck calls in Louisiana, either.

That made him smile. He liked that show.

Finally, he started out of his bathroom so that he could pack a small bag with his clothes. Jeans and t-shirts were all he really needed, along with a couple of sweatshirts and socks. Nothing extravagant or unnecessary.

He did pack his Italian silk boxers. Some luxuries man should never have to live without.

He'd barely made it to the door with his bags when he heard the voice again.

"_David..."_

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, but he threw caution and the door to the wind and stepped out. A second later, his bags dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

Oh, God...

_Erin._


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews...Here comes another chapter...

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**Chapter 3**

For the first time since the infestation, Dave found himself standing less than five feet from a zombie in his own home. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but his hands were shaking and he hesitated. Dear God... Holy Father in Heaven... It was _E__rin_.

His heart was in his throat and his stomach churned violently as he stared at the pale, bloodless face of the woman that had come to mean so much to him. Her eyes were closed and her lips lacked pigmentation of any kind, but there was no mistaking her for someone else. Her fine, Nordic bone structure and silvery blonde hair was the same as always. For a helpless moment, he wondered if he let strands fall between his fingers, would her hair still feel the same?

"David..."

She took an unsteady step toward him, and he jolted out of his ridiculous reverie. Jesus, what had he been thinking? She was undead, a monster. She—IT—was no longer Erin. The Replicator had made sure of that. She was a corpse. The fact that it was someone he'd known, someone he'd thought about often and had dreamed about, didn't matter.

It was a zombie. Zombies ate human beings.

He was human.

_That_ was what mattered.

Cursing his luck, Dave withdrew his Glock and pointed it straight between her eyes, ready to pull the trigger if she came closer.

He cursed his luck. He hadn't lived the cleanest life. He'd had far too many women, far too many marriages, but he tried to be a decent person. Still, here he was, having to shoot an ex-lover who'd become a zombie who would try to kill him.

_God must really have it out for me_, he thought bitterly.

But at the same time, things were making him uneasy about this...her...it. His sixth sense was twitching. How could she speak? None of the other monsters said more than the hideous moan that surrounded him day and night, yet here was Erin, speaking as clear as day.

Well, she wasn't as clear as day. She spoke in a low whisper, the word said as a moan, but it was still a word.

His name.

"Erin...can you hear me?" he asked, attempting to question her. It was foolish—she didn't have a functioning brain—but he had to try.

Profiling serial killers was thought to be foolish at one time, too.

She stood in place, swaying drunkenly, like zombies usually did, and her eyes opened.

Dave gasped. Her eyes were blue. Paler than normal, nowhere near her usual brilliant shade, but they were blue nonetheless. Every other zombie had white, lifeless eyes.

Those blue eyes of hers stared straight ahead, and there was a pained expression on her face. She didn't focus on anything, just gazed at nothingness. He needed her to focus. If she focused, maybe there was something there. Maybe...maybe they'd been wrong? Maybe she hadn't died? Maybe...

The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

"Erin," he announced, loudly and clearly. "Erin, can you hear me?"

She stumbled, a shuffle step, closer to him, still staring blankly. However, as she moved closer, Dave saw something else in her eyes, something he'd never noticed in the many zombies he'd encountered before.

Sadness.

There as a bone-deep sadness, a grief in Erin's eyes that spoke of pain and heartache like nothing he'd ever experienced. His entire chest ached with pain, and he felt his throat constrict as he watched her. What had caused that pain? Better yet, _who_ had caused that pain?

"David..." she whispered.

She continued to advance on him, and slowly, he lowered his gun. He might be the biggest fool in the world, but he lowered his gun. He'd listened carefully when she'd said his name, and he'd noticed a note of sadness in that moan. It was like she was in pain and she was searching for him to help her, like he was the only one who could.

"Erin. Erin Strauss. Erin," he chanted, trying to gain her focus, to break through to her, to whatever was keeping her alive inside.

She moved within a foot of him, and it took everything in his power not to turn tail and run. He stood his ground and waited. Either he was going to be dead, or he might have the woman he cared deeply for back in his life. It seemed ironic; he hadn't really been alive without her.

"David..." she said with one last step, and then she collapsed against him.

With no other thoughts, Dave scooped her up in his arms and rushed toward his bed. Her eyes were closed; she'd obviously passed out. Dave had never heard of zombies passing out before, but then again, stranger things _had_ happened recently!

Gently, Dave laid her on the bed, and as he did so, he noticed his arm was wet. He touched the dark fabric of his coat...and lifted red-smeared fingers.

Oh, shit... Blood!

Panicking, he ripped open the tattered suit and the thin blouse she was wearing and then rolled her to her side. Sure enough, there was a wound in the right lower quadrant of her back where a bullet had nicked her. It had a lot of congealed blood, but it was still oozing a slow leak. Someone had taken a shot at her.

Just like he'd been about to do.

"Jesus, Erin," he whispered and then opened one of the bags he'd packed with medical supplies. He cleansed the wound, applied antiseptic, and then dressed it, padding it with lots of gauze so it wouldn't hurt if he bumped her.

As he went to remove her shirt, he noticed other markings and lack thereof on her skin. The V-shaped incision from her autopsy was missing. There were burn and scorch marks on her back and chest, and the skin on her wrists was rubbed raw, all which were signs of torture.

His blood ran cold in his body. What in the hell had really happened to her?

He leaned forward and listened to her chest. There was a heartbeat. It was faint, but there was a heartbeat.

She wasn't a zombie.

A rush of relief washed over him, so potent it brought tears to his eyes. But he didn't have time to cry. He was focused on Erin and what she might need. She was so cold, and so pale, he worried he'd lose her again. There were no hospitals open in his area; he had to do what he could right then and there. He brought up his comforter, tucked it around her, and then crawled in next to her to add his body heat.

He held her cocooned body close to his, lay very still, and listened for the very faint sound of her breathing. He reached up and touched a silvery blonde lock of her hair. A tear escaped down his cheek.

Silky and soft...just as he'd remembered.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews. I'm sadly not going to be able to do what I want to with this story (Come on...don't you guys want to know what happens with everyone else on the team? I do!) and finish this before Halloween. Bear with me, please!

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**Chapter 4**

"Come on, Erin...take a drink," Dave coaxed as he held a water glass to the mouth of the woman whom he cared for so deeply. She'd been asleep over twenty-four hours, resting fitfully in his arms. The entire time, she was pale, cool, barely breathing. His heart constricted in his chest as he thought that she might not wake from this...from whatever was causing this illness.

Erin didn't stir, didn't even come close to opening her eyes, but she did allow him to wet her lips. Her mouth appeared to be dry as cotton, lacking the rich pink pigment she'd always had. He loved her lips; every time he'd kissed her in the past, he'd been amazed at how supple and plush they were. Candy sweet, too, with a delicate shape of a cupid's bow.

Sighing heavily, he rolled out of the bed and went to gather his supplies for her wound care. Gauze, alcohol, cotton pads... He had it all in a little tray on his mahogany dresser in his room. He'd changed the dressing twice in the past day, and each time, the blood on the bandage lessened. He didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad sign; either the wound was clotting, or she was running out of blood to give.

With utmost care, he rolled her to her unaffected side and began to slowly peel away the bandaging. No blood was on the old bandage, but the wound was dark with dried blood, and the surrounding tissues were an angry red. Methodically, he dabbed at the surface with a alcohol-soaked cotton pad and then applied a little of the thick, triple antibiotic ointment he had.

"That's it for my first aid knowledge," he said, placing the large gauze bandage on her side and taping it to her skin with masking tape. He had every other supply, but he lacked the kind of tape nurses and doctors used.

As he moved her to her back, Erin moaned softly. It made Dave jump; it was the first sound he'd heard her make since she'd said his name.

"Erin?"

Dave studied Erin, looking for any other sign of life, any sign that she could possibly be coming around to wakefulness.

Nothing.

Frustration welled up in him, but then just as quickly, he took a deep breath of air and then let it go. What good did frustration get him? It didn't change a damned thing.

He reached down and touched the cheek of the woman lying in his bed, and his lips quirked in a slight smile. "You always did know how to push my buttons best, _cara._"

At that moment, Erin moaned, a very slight, very quiet sound that barely breached his eardrums. He paused again, waiting as patiently as a hot-blooded Italian male could wait, and was rewarded when Erin's lips twitched.

"Erin?" Although he tried, he couldn't keep all of the urgency out of his voice. "Erin, babe, if you're there, please—"

"Don't," she whispered, and then she started coughing. Her frame, nearly emaciated from whatever ordeal she'd endured, shook and shuddered with the effort as she heaved with her inhalations.

Dave swept in to hold her, but she put up her arms to ward him off. Never one to take no for an answer, he reached for her, holding her anyway, attempting to help her breaths come easier. He held her upright, both of his arms under hers, as she tried to draw air into her lungs.

It looked as if her breathing was ineffectual, her prominent ribcage moving rapidly in an attempt to force air inside. But then a second later, she vomited what looked like mucous, and then she took a huge breath. Exhausted from her struggles, she dangled from his arms like a rag doll.

Dave swept her into his embrace and moved her to the soft leather reading chair he had in his room. She was still awake, but barely. Her eyes were screwed shut, her face in a pained expression. She quaked, shivers wracking her body.

"Oh, babe," he murmured, his voice thick and full in his throat. He swallowed that lump and reached for a throw blanket on the end of his bed.

As he wrapped her up tightly, he noticed she was wet. He reached for tissues and dabbed away the sweat on her face, the mucous from her chin.

Erin tried to reach his arm, but he touched her, causing it to fall limply. "Shh...shhh, _cara mia_. Let me take care of you."

"David..."

Joy filled him at the sound of her voice. "I'm here, love."

She opened her eyes, still pale and expressionless. Her voice was scratchy, weak. "Don't..."

"Water," he said quickly, rising from his hunched position in front of her.

Dave racked his brain, thinking of all the things he'd had when he was ill when he was younger. His mother would give him weak limoncello—an Italian sparkling lemonade drink—or ginger ale or lemon-lime soda. Now, kids drank Gatorade and all that kind of stuff for the electrolytes. He didn't think he had Gatorade, but he had some 7 Up in his bar in the basement.

He couldn't make a good Seven and Seven without it.

Running downstairs, he found his 7 Up and then jogged back up his stairs. He was breathless when he made it back into the room.

Erin was still awake. It looked as if she were struggling to keep her eyes open, but it didn't appear that she was really seeing anything. She turned her face toward him when he entered the room.

"Erin," he said, pouring the bottle of lemon-lime soda into a cup and then adding a straw. He held the straw to her lips. "Drink."

Slowly, Erin sipped the drink, and then she began to drink it more greedily.

"Thatta girl," he encouraged. "Keep going."

After half a glass, she finally slowed down and took some deep breaths. She looked so weak and pale, a mere shell of the vital Erin he'd known.

As he watched, she shivered again. Dave swept her up in his arms and held her on his lap, wrapping the blanket around her. She wriggled in his arms, and he held her a little tighter.

"It's okay, _cara,_" he said softly. "I have you."

"David..."

He chuckled as a memory came up fresh in his mind. "Remember the last time I held you in this chair, babe?"

"Don't..."

"Erin, I'm—"

Suddenly, Erin hauled up just enough to look at him in the eyes. "David, _listen_!"

Dave's heart ached in his chest. "I'm listening."

"Don't"—Erin tried to push herself farther away from him—"touch...me."

A huge feeling of foreboding ran though Dave as understanding started to hit him. Before she could say anything more, Erin began to cough again. This time, valiantly, she held herself away from him the best she could. She fell limply forward after she was done.

Dave held her as she caught her breath. He then lifted her exhausted body and put her in the bed again. He tucked her in and then asked the question he'd been avoiding. "Why, Erin? Why shouldn't I touch you?"

"I'm...infected."


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thank you so much for the reviews and continuing interest in this story...Now we get to hear a little bit more about what the heck is going on...

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**Chapter 5**

A sick, growing sense of wariness grew in the pit of Dave's stomach as he drew away from Erin and stood. He wanted to continue to hold her—Dear God, how he wanted to continue to hold her!—but he still had a good sense of self-preservation.

"Infected," he said dully, flatly, the word ringing in his head. He knew she didn't mean infected with the stomach flu, but he clarified it anyway, perhaps because he still held a modicum of hope. "Zombie infected?"

She didn't answer. She merely nodded the slightest bit, keeping her cool blue eyes closed.

With that nod—no, with that _word_—the hopes and dreams he'd had for them started to turn to dust and float away in the maelstrom of his mind. Despair roared through his entire being, and he wanted to howl like an injured wolf at the injustice of it all. He was angry, too. Not at her, _never_ at her, but at God, at the world, and at his own moment of hopeful naivety he'd had.

He knew better: Dreams didn't come true...not for nearly sixty-year-old men.

Dave ran his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair and shook his head. He'd had a roller coaster of emotions the last few hours; it was hard to keep his feelings straight. He'd gotten Erin back from the dead, he'd held and touched her, only to lose her again.

She was infected, and in an indefinite amount of time, she would be a zombie. There was nothing he could do about it...

Or could he?

She wasn't like other zombies he'd seen. He'd seen the bite; it was instantaneous death followed by a rising. It wasn't logical, a long goodbye like Erin was having. She could speak. She was showing _reason_ by trying to keep him away from her. Zombies didn't show reason; they grunted and asked for brains.

And she'd been shot. Why had she been shot? Had she attacked someone?

So many things didn't make sense to him. He needed answers. He didn't know if she could give them to him, but he had to make her try. Because no matter what happened—if she was healed or if she became a monster—he was going to be there for her.

He crouched down by Erin. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping restlessly again. He brushed her silvery blonde hair away from her face. Her skin was so pale, nearly luminous in the lamplight in his room.

"Erin," he said softly.

She startled, and the look of wary concern came to her face. "David...no..."

"Shhh," he whispered, coaxing her. "I'm not coming too close. I need some answers, Erin."

She looked up at him with cloudy, ice-blue eyes. "So tired."

A lump formed in his throat as he looked at her struggling to stay awake. "I know, _cara._ I know. You're so brave."

"I...tried."

He couldn't keep the moisture from forming in his eyes when he smiled back at her. "Keep trying, Erin. You can do it." After she nodded again, he started his questions. "With Hotch on the street...did you die that day?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head the slightest. "Drinking...Poison."

"He gave you a drug," he reiterated. The Replicator. He could've given her a drug that slowed her system down to unintelligible levels, making it appear that she'd died, and then taken her body, replacing her with a look-alike. It was far-fetched—science fiction, even—but so was everything else that had happened in the last few months of Dave's life...and the Replicator had been crafty enough to pull this off. He had motive, too: he'd known Erin and Blake from early days at the FBI, and he'd hated them both.

Replicating Erin—it could've been that Unsub's _magnum opus_...if the world hadn't fallen down around them.

That still didn't explain why she was a zombie, or how'd she'd gotten shot. "Erin. What happened after?"

She swallowed hard and whispered, "Sold..."

Dave paled at the word, thinking of all the bruises and marks on her body. Sweet Jesus, she'd been sold into some sort of seedy underworld. Her wrists and ankles had been torn up the most; they'd kept her captive with chains, like an animal. Red rage filled his belly, but he swallowed it back. He had work to do now, but he vowed he'd find the real animal she'd been sold to, and may God have mercy on his soul when he did.

"They...were...attacked," she continued, and then she tried to muster more strength. "I...was thrown out. I walked...home."

"You walked from where they were keeping you?"

"No." She shook her head. "They drove me blind."

Dave pieced together that her captors—more than one—were attacked by the zombies and then hastily deposited her away. These people must've been close to the Quantico area to have been able to drive. In the early days of the infestation, traveling had not been an easy task.

"I was bitten at home," she continued.

"How did you get away?" Dave asked. There were very few ways to deal with zombies.

"I...shot him," Erin replied and then added, "and myself."

His stomach rolled at the implications of her words. Holy God. "Did you try to kill yourself?"

Erin nodded, tears filling her eyes. "I...tried."

Dave pulled her into his arms in a fierce embrace. "I'm glad you didn't succeed!"

"No, David..."

"Screw that, Erin!" he snapped, holding her even tighter. "I'm going to hold you until I can't anymore."

"No...no..." she whispered, but she melted closer to him. "I...need your help."

"You have it," he answered, all the emotion he had in his soul bubbling to the surface.

"I...tried. I..couldn't," she began, and then her voice trailed off. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "I'm...sorry."

"Oh, God, no," he replied swiftly, more to himself than to Erin, as her words sank home. He'd had to hold Caroline as she died an unnatural death. He couldn't do it again with another woman he cared for.

"I'm so sorry."

Dave swallowed and glanced at the fragile woman in his arms. "Is that why you came here, Erin? So I would kill you?"

"No...I love you." Her lips quivered as she tried to smile. "See you...one last..."

"Stop," he said, holding his fingers to her lips. He couldn't do this. He couldn't, but he couldn't let her suffer, either. He had to figure this out.

But how?

She struggled, unsuccessfully fighting tears that rolled down her face. "I...can't be...a monster."

"You won't be," he said quickly. "Not if I have anything to do with it."

She looked at him, unasked questions in her pale eyes...and at that moment, an answer came to him.

"Sweetheart," he replied, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. "I can't figure this out...but I know about five other people who can help me put this puzzle together."

Erin smiled. "B.A.U."

He nodded. "I'm going to go find our team."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys. Here comes another chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_**One-hundred fifty miles south of Chicago, near Danville, Illinois...**_

Corn.

There was nothing to be seen for miles and miles in every direction except for corn. Six-foot-tall stalks, turning beige-colored in the late fall sun, waved back and forth in the Southern Illinois breeze. Derek had never been much of a fan of the sweet yellow kernels before—he could take it or leave it—but now, he loved corn. Corn helped save his life and the lives of his family.

He'd entered Chicago, fighting his way through the hungry zombies and equally hungry remaining humans who had lost their humanity. He'd searched, trying desperately to make contact with his mother, but he hadn't found her anywhere in the first three days. Garcia had helped him every step of the way, checking for any areas of increased cellular or internet service and reporting back with her info.

Just talking to her had kept some semblance of normalcy for him.

After nearly a week, he'd found his way to Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church. There, he'd found his sister Desiree, ministering to the abandoned and desperate. She was gaunt and tired and hadn't slept in days, which was no different than any of the other volunteers at the church. Derek had found out from her that his mother had been at the hospital, working with the ill and the afflicted. He'd also learned some very interesting news. There had been many patients that had been bitten by a zombie, but hadn't changed to one. The doctors that had remained on staff were working diligently to keep the survivors from changing, but with very limited success.

He'd also found out that his sister Sarah had departed the city with her husband and his nephew, Ty, about a week before he'd arrived. She'd met up with his aunt and cousins, who had left long before and were in a remote location in the middle of Texas. It warmed his heart to know that at least some of his family were safe.

The next day, telephone service had ceased to be functional. He'd lost contact with Penelope, but he'd found his mother. The situation in the city had become uncontrollable. The influx of ill and wounded had far outnumbered the workers, and it would have been only a matter of time before they were causalities, too. Only a few extremely brave or extremely risky doctors and nurses remained.

It had taken everything in him to talk his mother into coming with him. He'd almost lost the battle, if it wasn't for one particular doctor intervening...

"_Derek, I can't go," Fran said. Her hair, almost always vibrant red, had grown out and was nearly white. She wore stained and torn scrubs, and she looked gaunt and exhausted, and it broke Derek's heart._

"_Momma, you have to come. It's not safe here," he argued. "I found a place for us—you, me, Desi."_

_She smiled benevolently at him, like she did when he was a child and she was going to tell him no, anyway. "I am not leaving my home or my work here."_

_He huffed. "Mom, if I have to drag you out of here, I will."_

_As tired as she was, her Irish green eyes flashed with fire. "Derek, I can't go."_

"_Go, Fran." Derek recognized the man as Dr. Kincaid, an elderly physician who had worked with Derek's mother since __Derek was a__ little boy. Over the __years, he'd__ been like a father to Fran, a kind, vibrant man who was full of energy and wisdom. He extended a hand to Derek, who readily took it. "Hello, Derek."_

"_Hello, sir." Talking to the wise, older man, Derek felt about ten years old again. Very few people had that ability to do that to him._

_Although he looked tired too, Dr. Kincaid mustered a smile for Derek. Derek knew it was a losing battle at the hospital—no one that stayed was going to make it out alive. From years of reading people, Derek knew Dr. Kincaid understood that, too. A look passed between the two men, of resolution of what needed to be done._

_Ever observant, Derek's mom frowned. "What is cooking between you two?"_

"_I agree with your son," Dr. Kincaid said. "I think it would be best for you to go to a community and be with your family."_

"_You know __I'm__ needed __here," Fran__ argued._

_Dr. Kincaid wasn't swayed. "You'll be __needed there__ even more."_

_Fran frowned. "But Dr. __Kincaid—"_

"_That's an order, Francine." His voice was brusque, but his eyes were gentle and resigned._

_Tears filled his mother's eyes as she hugged Dr. Kincaid. Derek had rarely seen his mother cry. She'd always been strong for the family._

"_Find a good place for her, son," Dr. Kincaid said, handing Fran off to Derek. He winked at the two of __them and__ teased, "And send a Christmas __card__!"_

Derek sighed. They'd all made it safely to Southern Illinois. Some survivors along the way had found other survivors that seemed to know a little more about zombie activities. They were selective, but they'd welcomed a nurse, a volunteer rescuer, and a law enforcement agent to the community with open arms.

All in all, they'd found a home in the fields of corn in Illinois. They had plenty to eat, and they were relatively safe. One of the oddities that was picked up by the survivors was that zombies didn't want to cross cornfields. Since they were surrounded by corn, there shouldn't have been a problem, but they still had patrols every evening on the perimeter. Derek had done his duty the night before, the graveyard shift.

They were pretty happy there...except for one thing.

Before he could think too much and become maudlin, a pair of warm arms snaked around his middle and a mug of coffee appeared before him.

Derek took the mug with a chuckle. "Thanks, Momma."

He felt a soft kiss between his shoulder blades before she stole around to his side. "It's decaf, son. You should be sleeping."

He wrapped an arm around her. "Not right now."

Fran frowned at him. "You got patrol tonight again, Derek. I don't want you wearing yourself down."

"I'm fine, mother mine."

"Incoming east wall!" one of the patrols called out over the hand held megaphone they used. The clanging of a bell started next, signaling an unknown breech of the walls they'd built around their compound.

Fran's wide blue eyes met Derek's narrowed, focused gaze. "Do you think it's an attack?"

"Momma, go in the house." Derek climbed the hunting stand by his home to see what was happening. He narrowed his eyes and focused through the perimeter, trying to scout more information. He reached for his gun and crouched down, watching the dust rising at the gates and then settling.

It was a car that stopped right at the entry way...A luxury car?

There was something familiar about that automobile. Tingles rose on the back of Derek's neck as he took binoculars out of his pocket and checked for plates.

_Virginia._

"I'll be damned." He shook his head in disbelief, and then a grin he couldn't hold back spread across his face as he shouted out, "Rossi!"


End file.
